Those who’ve stuck with us through the lockdown months in Braidwood may recall the glib statement way back in April that as soon as we could, we’d be adding another to our number – that most essential component of any well-rounded family, a canine companion.
Unbeknownst to us at the time, in a now-established social trend, the same thought dawned simultaneously on thousands of homebound families around the world. Suddenly, puppies were in short supply, and prices skyrocketed as a result. The law of supply and demand is brutal like that, even when the commodity whose supply is being demanded is cuteness, along with all the qualities associated with the species.
So it seemed logical to have a look at rescue dogs: poor pooches whose family circumstances have changed and who need a new home. The advantages were obvious: the poor homeless hound gains a new family, freeing up scarce puppies for other loving homes; the adopted pet is likely to be house-trained already, have all its shots, and know how to behave in public.
But the reality was more complicated. For one thing, visiting pounds and doggie orphanages required all manner of COVID precautions, including making appointments well in advance, which negated that fantasy moment where your eyes meet a dog’s across a crowded pound and it’s a bond for life. And there appeared to be a limited range of breeds: we were limited to ferocious-looking pitbulls with rap sheets a mile long or mournful greyhounds with health issues. We couldn’t decide how or where our good work should begin.
Paging through the adoption websites was also heart-rending. All those eager, earnest faces, every one of which would be over the moon to get out of there and into a loving home, most of which were facing euthanasia if no-one came along to save them – it was a view into a very sad situation which seemed to overwhelm any tiny action we could take.
There was also much disagreement – of the most civil and restrained type possible – as to what breed we wanted. I’d always liked bigger dogs with short hair, like the Ridgebacks that originated where I did. Daniela much preferred smaller dogs, which would preferably stay off the furniture and smell of Chanel. There wasn’t much room to meet in the middle, but I thought a female would be a good idea for behavioural reasons.
So we put the feelers out into the puppy economy, reasoning that we’d see what the fates delivered, more in hope than expectation. And we were right – we were quoted A$5,500 for one cute but undistinguished ball of fur, and when a likely litter showed up on, say, Gumtree, the pups were gone within hours. Months passed and we dabbled and dipped into the market repeatedly without success.
At last, thanks to the swift thinking of my goat-herding niece, a litter of Jack-Russell-cross-Fox-Terriers came up – and a boy was available. Once look at the pics and I was sold – so having set out to get an older, larger, trained female, we ponied up for a new-born, small male. Obviously, the example of the legendary Cruise had a lot to do with tipping the balance.
Time passed, spring came, the days came and went with the usual regularity. And then we were told it was time to fetch our furry bundle of joy. It became something of a cross-country epic: the pup’s birthplace is about four hours’ drive from Corner Cottage, so we decided to go up there on Tuesday, stay somewhere pretty for the night, and do the pick-up the following day.
Long story short, we chugged up in the old Messerschmitt and stayed over in the very shishi town of Leura, which offered a whole world of new finial designs, as well as magnificent views across the Blue Mountains. Next day we navigated ourselves to the intriguingly-named Duck Maloi, where we were introduced to Archie’s parents and then Archie himself.
Within seconds, the mysterious chemistry that bonds unfeasible cuteness onto the stoniest heart occurred and we became mushy, carolling fur-baby parents. Our ball of fur possesses what can only be described as puppy eyes, a rotund but robust physique, and an insatiable capacity for sleep. When confined to his special crate on the back seat (according to established best practice), he cried piteously and persistently until we pulled over in the rain and released him into Daniela’s loving embrace.
So it’s day three and he’s proven a delight. Put it this way, we’re now rising from our slumbers a good few hours earlier than usual, woken by the hope-filled visage of a pup determined to play. He is pleasingly intrepid when bounding through the weedy garden and, when carried to the IGA in a bag with his head sticking out, invariably attracts a lot of cooing and aah-ing and ooh-ing.
As I type, he’s lying on a cushion next to me, all four paws in the air and twitching slightly as he dreams of frolicking across the weedy lawn, and round pink belly rising and falling as he breathes. It’s definitely an enhancement to family Fridays. After six months’ s search, we’ve found our canine family member.